I was now alone in the quiet woods. The sounds of trampling horses had died away, and the little rill beside me trickled peacefully in the still night. I reached my hand down, and, filling my glove with water, poured it over my face. It was cool and refreshing, and in a few moments I was able to rise. I looked at the stream—at the log, beneath which lay my sabre—and at the tree, beneath which lay my horse; and then, making an effort, I stepped upon the log, and crossed into the thick brushwood on the other side. But a few steps were taken when I was glad to sit down upon a fallen tree. I felt stunned and faint, yet hoped I was gathering strength and would soon be able to go on. As I was thus seated the question arose, What should I do? Fort Henry, I knew, was eastward of me. Should I go there?—it was but thirty-five or forty miles. No! the country between must be swarming with rebels. Should I go to Paducah? It was sixty miles northward, and the enemy would, doubtless, follow in that direction. Should I remain hidden in the woods, trusting to their leaving in a few days? Should I crawl to some barn or stack, and take the chance of their not searching it? Would my strength hold out if I went on? and would[Pg 136] the fractured bone, that I felt under my coat, and the growing pain in my side, do without the surgeon's care till I could make my way out?  
At length I decided on my course: I would go northward till daylight, and thus be some miles ahead; then I would turn eastward, and thus place myself on one side of their probable line of march. During the next day I hoped to meet a contraband, and, obtaining information, then decide whether to continue eastward, toward Fort Henry, or turn northward again to Paducah.
 
Thus deciding, I took out my handkerchief and tied my pistol round my waist, and then rose from the tree to begin my journey. The broken ribs made it painful to breathe, and my right arm had to be supported constantly by my left. Around me, all was beautiful and serene. The calm moon shone, in peaceful contrast with the exciting scene I had lately witnessed, and lighted my steps and pointed my way. No sound disturbed the stillness of the woods, save that from a distant farm there came the tinkle of a cow-bell. It was in the direction I wished to go, and toward it I slowly made my way. A friend had brought me down the April number of the "Atlantic" before leaving camp, and I had read Whittier's "Mountain Pictures." A line of it came to my mind:
 
"The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung;"
and I wondered whether any other reader would ever thus apply it.
 
[Pg 137]
 
I had to walk slowly through the silvery-lighted woods; but at last drew near the ringing noise, and climbed the hill, on the top of which were the farm and barnyard of the cows. A road ran along the brow of the hill, and on the other side of it appeared some wide fields. To the left was a clump of apple-trees, and the hoarse bark of a dog told me they covered a house. I stopped a few moments to rest and listen, and then stepped cautiously into the road. On the opposite side was a large tree, and in its shadow I tried to climb the high rail fence. I was weaker than I had supposed. My limbs refused at first to lift my weight, and my one arm could not keep me from swinging round against the fence. Twice I thought I must give it up; but, after several efforts, I mounted it, and then, holding my breath, I let myself drop down on the other side.
 
Across the wide field there was another road. I had not gone far when I heard a noise in the woods, and, fearing it might be a picket of the enemy, I lay down beside the fence. The moon was then near the horizon, and I deemed it most prudent to wait till she had set.
 
Soon after this I came upon some cows, and these I drove before me. I thought that if there should be a picket in the road the cows would turn off, and there would be less likelihood of my being seen or heard. After going, I should think, a mile, we came to a broad road. This the cows crossed; and I was about to follow, when a large dog came from a house beyond, and, after barking furiously at the cows, came toward me.[Pg 138] I took my pistol out, and was prepared to fire, when the dog stopped barking. It was well for me he did so, for within a few yards I heard horses coming up the road. I looked, and saw the outline of some horsemen. There was no time to fly. I sank quietly down upon the ground, and lay still. The horsemen came on. They seemed a picket. One rode in front, who seemed a sergeant, and the others followed. They passed close by me—so close, I could hear the jingling of their spurs.
 
When they had passed I rose, and determined that thereafter I would not go upon any road or cross any field, or spare any pains. I entered the woods. They were now thick, with underbrush, and I had not the moon to guide me. Frequently I had wanted the North star on night marches, but it had always been hidden by clouds. Now, however, on this night, when I needed it above all others, it shone out beautiful and bright. As I watched it, it seemed an old friend, reappearing to aid me, and again and again as I emerged from some thick underwood, and turned toward its constant blaze, I felt as if it were the companion of my flight. But even with its aid, I encountered difficulties. Sometimes the trees would hide it, and often I had to keep my eyes fixed on my path or strained on suspicious objects around me. My plan was to take some distant hill for a land-mark, and on reaching it, to look for another, and make toward it. Yet fallen trees and deep hollows often made me change my course, and sometimes made me lose it, and then I had to search the sky,[Pg 139] and refind the star before I could go on. As I could not use my hands, I was forced to push my way through the brush with my left shoulder. I had lost my hat, too, in the fall, and my hair often caught in the branches. So my progress was slow and wearisome, with no help around me, but with hope before.
 
I should think it was about three o'clock in the morning, when, from the top of a little hill, there appeared just before me the smoking, smouldering fires of a camp. I knew if it were a camp, that I was within the lines. I turned, therefore, and made my way back as a burglar might glide through a house—sliding my feet along the ground, lest I should tread upon some crackling branch—choosing the thickest wood and the darkest shade. About an hour later, I saw, as I thought, some tents, but knew it was most improbable there should be any there; so I stopped to examine, and then saw they were but the grey light of morning breaking through the trees. It was a welcome sight; yet I confess the night had not seemed long, and that I was surprised to find the morning come.
 
I now changed my course, and turned toward the east. The woods changed too. There were small trees, with little underbrush, and the ground was a smooth, descending plain. I kept on over this for miles. The sky brightened; the sun rose, and mounted higher and higher. I heard the barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle, and occasionally the voices of men and children. I came, too, upon roads, and these had to be crossed[Pg 140] with great caution, coming out step by step, looking carefully up and down, listening anxiously, and they hurrying across and plunging into the woods on the other side. Whence these roads came or where they went, I neither knew nor cared. I was ignorant of the country, but not compelled to ask my way. For once, I was strangely independent, and needed only to look toward the sun and travel east.
 
Later I came upon fields and farms, and round these I had to make long circuits. One chain of farms, I thought I never should get through. Again and again I was forced to go back and try again. The temptation to break through my resolution, and cross just this one, or that one, was very strong; and I found that making one's escape, like any other success, depends on his resolution and perseverance.
 
Toward noon, as I was approaching a road, I heard children's voices. I looked, and saw, or thought I saw, a man on horseback. He sat still as though on guard, and I supposed he was one of the enemy's picket. The woods were thin, so I lay down and drew the bushes over me. I watched him, but he did not move, and I soon decided I must stay there as long as he did. Notwithstanding my anxiety, I fell into a doze, probably not for a minute, yet when I opened my eyes, the man was gone, and a tree stood in his place. It was an optical illusion. My eyes had been over-worked for three nights, and for the last twenty hours, constantly strained in examining objects far and near. The[Pg 141] moment's rest had dispelled the apparition. I remembered that as the sun was rising that morning, I had long doubted whether a clump of bushes was not a group of my own men—that trees and stumps had several times been changed to sentinels and guards; and I remembered, also, the tents in the morning, and the camp-fires during the night.
 
I now began to suffer from thirst, for I could only drink by dipping up water with one hand. The sun, too, beat down through the half-leaved trees, and became painful. I twisted some leaves into a sort of cap, but it was often brushed off, and at best made but a poor shelter. I had been disappointed also in not meeting a contraband. Some I had seen in fields, but always with white men, and them I must shun; and as I did so, I asked myself whether this was the United States, and these Americans, that I should be time skulking like a hunted criminal.
 
Feeling now and then a little faint, I decided on going to a house for something to eat, and again plunging into the woods. Yet here great caution was necessary. I wanted a small house, because it would probably contain but one man, and I must have it out of sight of neighbors and near woods. I passed several, but none of them complied with my conditions—one was too large, another too far back in an open field, and a third was overlooked by a fourth.
 
It was perhaps three o'clock, and I was growing more and more faint, when I saw an opening through the[Pg 142] trees and the corner of a house. I approached it slowly. There was a field beyond, but no houses in sight, and the woods came up to the yard behind. "It is just the house I need," I said to myself, "and now I must risk it and go in." I slipped my pistol round, so that I could draw it quickly from under my coat, and pushed open the gate. All was quiet; I walked round to the door, and saw a woman inside, who looked startled at seeing me. She said she would call her husband, who was in the field, and went out. I watched her, and in a few minutes was satisfied by seeing them returning. I went back, and narrowly inspected the house. A shot gun hung over the window, but it was unloaded and rusted. As I finished, they came in. He was a young man, with a bright, happy face—far too cheerful a face for a secessionist. We looked at each other, and he said:
 
"You are a union soldier."
 
"Yes," I answered; "and what are you?"
 
"I am a union citizen," he replied.
 
The word "union" was something of a talisman; if he had been a rebel, he would have said Federal.
 
James Mills (for such was my new-found friend's name) was the first of several suffering and devoted union men, who refused all pay and reward for the services they rendered to me, and whose kindness I cannot sufficiently praise. He told me I was in a dangerous neighborhood, and must neither stay, nor travel by the road. His wife hurried for me a dinner, and then he went with me through some fields and woods,[Pg 143] and placed me upon a path leading to a second union man's, named Henry Chunn. It was something like three miles to Mr. Chunn's, but I felt quite fresh and equal to a dozen, if necessary.
 
Arriving there, I was most kindly received by his wife. She told me that her husband would cheerfully take me on toward Paducah. She made me lie down; she bathed my shoulder; and she did everything for me that womanly kindness could suggest. This was the first bed I had lain upon for more than three months. It produced an old effect, for in a few moments I was sound asleep. I slept till after dark, and then awoke by hearing the children cry that father had come. He came in, and walking up to me, said, in a cordial, honest voice:
 
"My friend, I am truly glad to see you; you are truly welcome to my house."
 
I went to sleep again and slept till morning. There was bad news then: his mules had disappeared from the barnyard during the night. But I must wait; his boys would find them by the time we finished breakfast. At breakfast a little circumstance occurred which may give you an idea of the different life we lead on the border. Across some fields, and beyond some woods, we heard a gun. It was no cannon—a mere shot-gun, such as a boy might fire anywhere on a spring morning—yet we all stopped talking.
 
"What does that mean?" I asked, after the silence had continued a few moments.
 
[Pg 144]
 
"I don't know," said Mr. Chunn.
 
"Have your neighbors guns and powder?"
 
"No."
 
"Then," said I, "it may mean a great deal for us."
 
We all rose from the table, and looked anxiously across the fields; but nothing was to be seen. The family looked troubled, and Mr. Chunn said something about the mules being gone, and this being strange. We waited some time, but all continued quiet. But the boys had not found the mules, and Mr. Chunn accordingly walked on with me toward the house of Mr. Edward Magness, who was likewise a good union man, and would willingly help me on.
 
I took leave of these kind, simple-minded people, whose plain and honest goodness is rare in the great world, from which they live apart, and went slowly along the little wood road. I soon came to a field in which were two or three men and several children, planting corn. I must here explain to ............